sparked a match that set the fire
by safeandsound13
Summary: The odds being in her favor, that was the dream. Clarke's name gets drawn during the 73th Games anyway, alongside a boy from the Seam who looks at her like she hung the moon. One of their mentors is a drunk, the other's an ass. Clarke is as good as dead. All in the name of blood must have blood. That's reality. / The Hunger Games AU.


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" _From the treaty of the treason: In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public "Reaping." These Tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the capital, Polis. And then transferred to a public arena where they will Fight to the Death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games."_

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Before Clarke's father died, he was a victor. She was too young to remember what it was like living in the victor's village, too young to really understand what it all meant. All Clarke has ever really known is the fact that one day she would be reaped.

Not because it was fair, or because she had dumb luck and the universe worked in mysterious ways. Not because it was the appropriate measure for Polis, their capital, to take, for what the Rebels did all those years ago—an eye for an eye, a child for a rebel.

She would be reaped, simply because it made for good television.

Seeing the daughter of the first district twelve victor die, broadcasted for the entirety of Panem to see, would be the event of the century. It would be a promise. A promise to every citizen that nobody was safe. Not _even_ the daughter of a victor.

So when it didn't happen during her first reaping, when she was just twelve years old, it just meant she got one more year of training. It was a gift. One more year to make sure she wouldn't go down without a fight. Then it didn't happen the next year, and it didn't happen the year after that, nor the year after that and something unfamiliar started to grow inside of her, something dangerous.

She started to hope. Hope that, maybe, maybe it hadn't all been true. The cruel words her mother had told her ever since her father died in a freak accident down in the mine when she was just five years old— _there are no good guys in the capital, remember that, Clarke, remember you have to be prepared. You have to be strong_.

Clarke got to think that maybe those words weren't as much for her, as they were for her mother herself. Maybe she was trying to prepare herself, in case her only daughter got reaped, and she was just making sure the worst thing that could happen was that her words would be untrue.

By the time she turned eighteen, hope had grown into something real and tangible. Not being reaped was a possibility now, a serious possibility. Her name was only in there once, and there were a lot of kids. Delfikru had one of the biggest populations in Panem, so maybe the odds were in her favor, just this once. Just one more time.

The odds being in her favor, that was the dream.

"The time has come to select one brave young man and woman, each representing district twelve in this year's games," Thelonius Jaha, their mayor, smiles uncomfortably at the crowd of children in front of him. The static over the microphone makes her flinch, goosebumps forming over her arms.

She finds Wells' eyes in the crowd, standing with the other Delfikru boys. She nods at him, confident, if only to fool herself. They've had hundreds, no, thousands conversations about this exact moment. Just one more reaping, one more, and they're free.

He smiles at her, weak, no teeth showing, entire posture wooden. _One more_ , she reminds herself, looking back at the stage.

"Ladies first," Thelonious snickers into the microphone nervously, hand already reaching into the bowl of names. Her name is only in there once, she reminds herself. Some kids have their name in there a dozen times, or more. She is going to be fine.

Despite everything, she manages to remain calm as he opens up the piece of paper.

"It's Clarke," he says, off-script, too soft, obviously shaken. He quickly corrects himself, looking away from her. The girl he read bedtime stories too when she was little, the girl his son promised to marry when they were just eight years old, the girl who proof-read his holiday speeches and painted him for his birthday. He clears his throat, repeats himself, more firm. "Clarke Griffin."

The breath gets knocked out of her for a second, shoulders stiff as the other children look into her direction but avoid her gaze. Finally, one of the Peacekeepers grabs her by the arm and pushes her forward. It's dead silent, except for her footsteps as she makes her way towards the stage, and the synchronous footsteps of the four guards that flank her.

Mayor Jaha puts his hand on her shoulder comfortingly, just a second, before clearing his throat once more. "Let's have a big hand for the female tribute of the 73th Hunger Games."

The children clap, but Clarke doesn't really hear anything beside the sound of her blood rushing through her body, the loud pounding of her heart. She can't find her mother in the crowd, but then again she might not even be trying that hard.

Jaha reaches into another bowl, "Then for the boys." He unfolds the piece of paper carefully, visibly relieved as he reads out the name. "Finn Collins."

It's not Wells, she can find some comfort in that. She would feel guilty for thinking that, would send Thelonious a dirty glance, for being happy some other kid is going to die instead of Wells, but she knows everyone except the tribute's family is thinking the exact same thing. The Games make you selfish.

The boy, Finn, she doesn't recognize him as he makes his way to the front of the stage. A Seam girl cries out his name, tries to get to him, but the Peacekeepers won't let her. Clarke doesn't recognize her either. She figures it's better not to know anything.

"Let's give it up for this year's tributes, shall we?" Jaha turns back to them, glancing from one to another, "Come on, you two. Shake hands."

As the boy smiles at her, confident even though his hand is sweaty in hers, streak of hair falling in his face, she is reminded that this is reality. It was nice to dream for a little while, maybe it helped her get this far, maybe she couldn't have survived without it. But. It's time to face the facts. She is going to the Games, and she's not going to come home a victor. She's not going to come home at all.

The screen behind the stage flashes, urging everyone to chant along with 'jus drein, jus daun'. It's been the slogan since the first Games. _Blood must have blood_.

"Happy Hunger Games," Jaha's voice booms through the open townsquare one last time. This really was her final reaping. "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

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Wells finds her first, only because he knows the Justice Hall so well.

"Three minutes," one of the Peacekeepers behind the door reminds them and it takes everything in Clarke not to spit in his face.

"Clarke," he breathes, and they're already hugging. He tugs on her braid and she doesn't want him to say anything. She finds his brown eyes, and they're wet. "You can do this. Your life can be more than just impossible decisions and a tragic end. You can choose to live. Just… Just try to win, okay?"

She searches his eyes because she doesn't quite know how to tell him she doesn't know how. She was prepared sure, had some mediocre basic life skills training like making a fire, and she always made sure to stay in peak condition by going on runs, but nothing could have _really_ prepared her. Prepared to kill. She's not sure she can.

"Okay," she confirms, hugs him again. Presses her face into his neck, tries to remember how this feels, how he smells. Her best friend. "Only because you asked."

He huffs, squeezing her as he pulls back, hands on her arms. He eyes her curiously as she bites on the inside of her cheek. Then, she forces herself to say, "Take care of my mom, okay?"

He opens his mouth to respond when there's a knock on the door and her mother comes inside. Wells swallows, tight, fingers digging into her skin before he nods at her, taking a step back. "May we meet again."

She sniffs, wiping at the wetness on her cheeks with the palms of her hands roughly, repeating the words back to him. His hand lingers on the door handle, but then her mother takes her face into her hands and he's gone.

"First, you survive," her mother's voice shakes, as do her lips as she presses a kiss to her forehead, wiping her thumbs over her cheeks. "You survive, and then you find your humanity again."

It's a stark reminder that there's no room to try and be a good guy during the Games. Only one person comes out, and it's clear her mother thinks it should be her.

"I'll be fine," Clarke affirms her, even though her voice cracks as she reaches up to cover her mother's wrists with her hands. "I'm smart, right? I know every plant there is, every medicinal herb and edible berry, thanks to you, I know how to make a fire and find shelter, like you taught me to. I'll be fine."

Her mother gives her a watery smile, brushing some hair back from her face. "You are." She presses another kiss to her temple, finds Clarke's hands with her own. "You will be."

Then a Peacekeeper comes in, pulling her away from her mother and onto a train. It's not until it starts moving that she dares to open her hand. Inside of it is the pin her father gave her mother all those years ago. It's a mockingjay. _As long as you carry it with you, nothing bad will happen to you_ , he'd told her. She squeezes her hand firmly shut, leaning her forehead against her closed fist as she lets herself cry, lets herself mourn the life she'll never have.

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Finn found her shortly after. Introducing himself like this was the first day of a new school year, like it's a blessing they're meeting. Like he's waited for this.

He's chewing on something loud as he crashes on the chair beside her, a plate full of colorful food in his free hand, legs hanging over the side. "You should try some. _Seriously_. It's really good." He pushes the plate her way but she shakes her head. His smile doesn't falter. "So have you ever met them?"

"Met who?" She finally speaks, fingernails digging into her palms as her hands rest in her lap, creating crescent moon-shaped welts on her skin.

"Our mentors," he looks at her like she's stupid. "Anya and what's his name." He twirls one of his hand like it'll jumpstart his memory, using the other to stuff more food into his mouth. "Bellamy."

"Anya can't make it," a deep, unfamiliar voice speaks up from behind her, before whoever it belongs to sits down on the couch across from her. He's tall, dark, has broad shoulders, curls falling into his eyes. He leans forward to yank the plate from Finn's hand, putting one of the capital's edible creations into his mouth. He smirks at the boy, "I guess I'll have to do."

"I'm Finn Collins," he retorts, scrambling into a more decent position, like the older guy is about to reveal all the secrets of the world. Like anything he says could actually make a difference to two tributes from the twelfth district.

"That's great," he responds, spitting out a mouthful of food into a napkin, grimacing. He puts the plate down on the table in front of them, instead trading it for one of the glasses of champagne someone put out for them earlier. _To celebrate_ , the assistant had said cheerily. Clarke had felt nauseous and had to swallow down bile.

"So, uhh, Bellamy, when do we start?" Finn asks, and the other guy downs the glass in one gulp. The younger boy regards him warily. "You're our mentor, right?"

"What about you, princess?" Bellamy ignores him, finds her eyes instead. Doesn't try to hide the way he takes her in, her blue eyes and her blonde hair. A stark contrast to his tan skin and dark eyes, an obvious indicator he was born in the Seam. She is obviously _not_ from the Seams, she knows that, and he knows that, and maybe that rubs him in the wrong way. "Cat got your tongue?"

She remembers him, vaguely, because he was selected during her first reaping. No, he wasn't selected. He volunteered, she remembers now. District twelve's first volunteer. She frowns at him, unimpressed. She looks over at Finn, but he's already looking at her, an almost fond look in his eyes. She quickly looks away.

"Clarke," she offers, finally, not bothering to hold out a hand for him to shake. He doesn't seem like the type. He nods, eyebrows raised as he reaches forward to grab her glass, too, not breaking eye-contact.

Something snaps inside of her. He's supposed to help them. Teach them how to get sponsors, and give them advice. Or maybe it's not him, but this entire situation they're in. Maybe he's an easy target to take her frustrations out on. "You don't have to be such an ass about it, you know. We're just as much stuck with you as you are with us. A mentor helped you through the games, right? So they must be of some use."

He snorts, humourless, and she remembers more now. She remembers him crying over the death of a twelve year old girl, remembers the sound of his heart-piercing screams, the screams she heard in her nightmares for weeks after. It makes her feel uncomfortable, like remembering was too intimate. "If you're talking about Anya, she wasn't much of a knight in shining armor. The only reason she made the slightest of efforts to help me win was so she didn't have to do this whole mentoring thing anymore."

Finn doesn't seem to like the fact they're excluding him, scoffs in his seat and leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you know anything about the arena?"

"Which, _I_ wouldn't understand of course," he feigns innocence, blatantly ignoring Finn. Maybe he doesn't even hear him, Clarke wishes she didn't. His smirk widens, motioning between him and the two of them with his glass. "Considering it's been this much fun already."

"You're an ass," she bites back, miffed, falling back against the back of her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. She never said it would be fun, it isn't fun for them either. He survived, and they don't stand as much of a chance. He didn't want to be here, noted. Neither did she. The least he could do was not be such a jerk about it.

"We don't all have victor royalty for parents, princess," he snorts, eyes distant, putting the glass back against his lips and tipping his head back to finish it off. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Some of us actually didn't have the odds in our favor."

Finn says something about how he'd always admired Jake Griffin, and he actually looks half-offended on her behalf, but she's too busy glaring at their mentor.

"Don't talk about my parents," she hisses, fingernails digging into the armrests, brow furrowed together angrily. "You think just because you're emotionally tortured over killing some kids seven years ago you have the moral high ground here?" She spits, but she isn't done. "We get it, you like to drink your sorrows away and establish this act of indifference to feel less lost in the rest of your life. Well, you can get back to that as soon as we're both dead, okay? Until then—you're stuck with us and you can't sent us in even more at a disadvantage."

Some of these tributes, they've been training since they were little kids so they could volunteer, and they probably have a better mentor than them, too. That's double the advantage. The entire system is rigged, and has been rigged since the start, so Clarke needs all the help she can get.

"Are you through?" He asks, finally, one eyebrow cocked as he eyes her, seemingly unaffected. He obviously already made up his mind about her. _Princess_. Condescending asshole.

" _Yes_ , my name wasn't in there more than once," she answers, steadily, even though her hands are shaking with anger. The odds aren't in _anyone's_ favor, despite him trying to suggest otherwise. As long as they're fighting each other, blaming each other, nobody looks to the capital, nobody fights them. "But I still got reaped. So maybe you should remember who the real enemy is." With that she pushes out of the armchair, storming off to her room.

"I'll talk to her," she hears Finn offer to Bellamy almost excitedly, like they're lifelong friends and he's going to give her a pep talk that's going to make her forget about the fact she's going to be dead within a matter of weeks.

In another life, during a different games, or another district, maybe she would've been able to afford caring about other people's feelings. She slams the door in his face.

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Finn _loves_ the capital, loves the buildings in Polis, the attention the people give him. The gifts they shower him with, and the hugs, and the food. Part of her likes it, too, but then she remembers why she's here in the first place and her mouth tastes foul.

"This is amazing," he exclaims, multiple times, each time more excited than the time before that. It all just feels like an alternate reality to Clarke.

Anya, the victor of the 46th Hunger Games—a pretty woman somewhere in her early forties, skinny in a way that suggests she doesn't treat her body like she should, long shiny hair, permanent dark circles under her eyes, scars peeking out from under all her garments—finally makes an appearance. Bellamy practically has to carry her off the train and into the building, she's that out of it. The entire elevator smells like liquor. When she catches his eye, he mutters something about Polis making it worse. Finn seems too busy admiring the view, nose pressed to the glass in the back of the elevator and she doesn't dare to ask what exactly 'it' is.

Anya suddenly laughs, actually cackles, like she's remembering something then looks straight up in the security camera, eyes into slits, nodding as if to say hi. Her tone is anything but friendly. "President Wallace. It's been a while." She tries to curtsy, but ends up having to choke back vomit.

She burps, her hand fisting into Bellamy's shirt as she tries to keep herself from toppling over. She looks back up darkly. "I hope you're enjoying the show!"

Bellamy harshly whispers something into her direction, hand wrapped around her arm and she scoffs, pushing him away before storming out of the elevator as soons as the doors open. She trips twice and has to pause and lean on the dinner table, but she makes it to her room with a loud snap of a door closing.

"The life of a victor, huh," Bellamy notes, absentmindedly, avoiding her gaze before disappearing into, what she guesses, is his own sleeping quarters.

Clarke spends the first hour of their stay in district 12's penthouse locked in her room, trying not to throw up. It's all too real now, too close. She misses the woods, her mom and Wells, the fresh air, sketching, even misses the neighbour's dumb cat.

One of the assistants comes to get her for dinner, eventually. A dinner that includes enough food to feed at least half a dozen families back in the district, but she manages to keep her lips pressed together when a snarky dig at their wasteful ways wants to come out. It's no use fighting it. This is who they are.

"... understand. So you _don't_ think we should get to know their weaknesses during training?" Finn seems to be asking Bellamy's confirmation on something, already inhaling full spoons of soup as Clarke sits down next to him, across from their mentor. Anya is missing, but Clarke wouldn't be surprised if she's knocked out until the next morning.

"What are you talking about?" She cuts in, putting the napkin off her plate and resting it on her lap. She feels a slight pang of… maybe jealousy. Why is he giving Finn tips, and not her?

Finn sends her a toothy smile, while Bellamy just barely glances over at her in acknowledgement. "I'm not saying you shouldn't _note_ their weaknesses. I'm just saying, it's not all about physicality, about knowing how to beat them in a fist fight. More than half of the deaths in the arena don't even come to that."

"If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles," Clarke mutters almost petulantly, moving her spoon through the liquid in front of her, head resting on her fist. When she looks up they're both looking at her, so she elaborates. "Sun Tzu."

He's still looking at her, like he doesn't know what the hell she's talking about, and there's a pause as she swallows down a mouthful of soup, tight. It's a little painful, the liquid still too hot. "He was a—"

"I know who Sun Tzu is," he cuts her off, eyebrows raised as he takes her in. If he's offended, he doesn't show it. "I _also_ remember him saying that whoever knows when to fight and when not to fight will win."

Her shoulders tighten as she sits back in her chair as she breaks off a piece of bread, stuffing it in her mouth, defeated. She feels bad for looking so surprised at his admission—maybe she'd judged him too fast. Maybe he wasn't looking at her like _he_ didn't know what _she_ was talking about, but maybe that she didn't have a clue herself.

"So what does that mean, exactly?" Finn cuts in, and for the first time she's thankful for him, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"That you shouldn't just attack everyone that crosses your path blindly, that sometimes it's better to wait it out," Bellamy answers, filling up his plate with more colorful greens that actually smells so good her stomach rumbles in anticipation. Clarke almost can't believe he's actually helping them. "You don't have to kill all 23 tributes to become a victor."

"Then what do we do?" She clears her throat, softly, managing to swallow down a scoff just in time, trying to drop some of the hostility she harbors toward him. Maybe they can start over, if she takes the first step.

"Well, princess," he smirks almost maliciously, running a finger over the rim of his glass, shifting forward in his seat. Her skin crawls a little and she thinks she judged him just right. "It's better to get these people to like you, form allies. Not just the other tributes, the sponsors, too."

She can't look directly at him, can't give him the satisfaction as she thinks over his words, instead stares at a spot on his chest, right below his chin. "When you're in the middle of the games and you're starving, or freezing, some water or matches, or even a knife, can mean the difference between life and dead. Where do you think these things come from?"

"Sponsors," Finn fills in, as if the question wasn't rhetoric.

Bellamy points his fork at him, tilting his head to indicate he's right. "Be careful, princess," his smirks widens, before he empties his fork in his mouth. "Looks like genius over here is trying to come for your crown."

She exchanges an uncomfortable look with Finn, before his head snaps down to look at his plate instead, adam's apple bobbing up and down visibly. They're suddenly more aware than ever that only one of them is going to come out. She's suddenly not that hungry.

.

The next day she meets Lincoln, the stylist awarded to her by the capital. She doesn't expect much of him. She was already plucked and waxed and prodded and pricked and hosed down and who knows what else, the minute she got to the capital, by a prepteam. Their disgusted looks were indication enough of how Polis citizen's thought about the poorer districts.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing out of his mouth, and she's surprised he doesn't have one of the capital's accents. He's tall, very tall and broad, dark skin covered in tattoos that wrap around his shoulders and head. He has friendly eyes, though. "I'm sorry this is happening to you. I'm going to do my best to help you as much as I can."

Most people just congratulated her, so it was a nice change of normalcy. He helped her into a black catsuit that was supposed to represent her district, tight and covered in blinding, glittery arrows. It doesn't feel like her, and it doesn't feel like it's a good representation of her district either, so she doesn't really know what they're getting at.

The Delfikru's official symbol is just a circle with four arrows inside of it, pointing at each other, supposedly representing a common purpose. It has nothing to with what they're actually known for, which is mining. She knows Polis meant for it to mean that mining was helping them attribute to a common purpose, but that purpose mostly just benefited the capital.

It's hard to breathe for a second when she looks in the mirror after two of Lincoln's assistants come into put her hair into elaborate braids and darken up her eyes with makeup. He must notice the sour look on her face, because he put his large hand on her shoulder in comfort. She doesn't really know what to say, so she just settles on, "I look pretty, I guess." She pulls on the material a little, it's stiff.

"It'll make an impression," he corrects her, squeezing softly, eyes persistent on hers in the mirror as he attaches her father's pin to her chest. He can't say much more because of the camera's and bugs placed everywhere, but she knows what he means and it means a lot. She sends him a thankful, genuine smile before she's picked up by her usual entourage of two Peacekeepers.

Finn is dressed like her, but somehow less revealing, his hair slicked back with gel. His eyes light up when he sees her, eyebrows disappearing further towards his hairline. He whistles a little, smiling brightly as he throws an arm around her shoulders. "We're definitely going to steal the show."

She politely smiles at him, distracted as she searches the room for Bellamy for a last minute walk through of the parade, crossing her arms over her chest. Finn doesn't take the hint, just tightens his grip around her arm until they're directed towards their carriage. She knows he means well, but she just can't afford losing her focus right now.

Their mentor doesn't make an appearance until after president Wallace's speech and the tributes' official introductional parade. As soon as the broad daylight caught the arrows on their suits, they started emitting red and black beams of light, Delfikru's honorary colors. Polis citizens in the audience _loved_ it, not used to so much spectacle from the twelfth district. He's talking to some other mentors, Anya nowhere in sight once again, when he spots them. Finn helps her off the carriage and Bellamy's eyes linger on their connected hands as he reaches them, clearing his throat.

She pulls her hand away quickly, even if she's not entirely sure what's she trying to prove to him. She opens her mouth to say something when she catches another tribute glaring directly at her, who she recognizes as a member from the second district. If looks could kill, she'd be dead. Very dead. Six feet deep under, dead. He must be jealous they used the beams of light because Trishanakru is located in the middle of the glowing forest. She scowls right back at him, because it's not _her_ fault his stylist is lame.

Bellamy catches her line of sight and grabs her by the arm, pulling her towards the elevators as Finn trails closely behind. "Hey," she exclaims, annoyed, trying to jerk her arm away from his grip. He doesn't budge, and waits for the doors to close before speaking. He's such a fucking asshole.

"Otan, the name of the guy you were making heart-eyes at," he barks, finally releasing his grip. He searches her face with dark eyes. "He's from District Two."

"A career," Finn fills in, almost in awe as he tries to run a hand through his hair, before remembering the gelled up state it's in.

"You know what a career is, yes?" He asks sarcastically, leaning back against the wall and Finn flinches at his tone, sending her an apologetic look.

She nods her head, stiffly, arms crossed over her chest in defiance. Careers are tributes from district one and two, they train in special academies until they're eighteen and then volunteer. It's one of the reasons they win almost every year. She knows what she did was dumb, practically challenging Otan to a duel, but she didn't realize it at the time. Therefore, she thinks he can cut her a break. "Of course," she finally croaks out.

"What is it? You enjoy picking fights?" He presses his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets, sighing loudly. Probably figuring she already knows what's she done wrong, so it's no use ripping her a new one. "You got a deathwish or something, princess?"

She can never win. If she tries to make the sponsors like her, she becomes a target for the other tributes. If the sponsors don't like her, she's dead anyway. Bellamy always looks at her like she's a lost cause, either way.

"I'm sorry, okay," she mutters, defensively, pulling on her hair to get it out of the intricate bun as the elevator dings, indicicating they've reached their apartment.

"Don't be sorry," he presses, condemningly, eyes dark. "Be smarter." He disappears back towards his room and Clarke's still pulling on the braids, trying to get all of the elastics out of her hair because even though she knows the human body doesn't work like that, she feels like they're constricting the blood flow to her brain.

Finn catches her elbow, he smiles at her, all teeth and playfulness. "I don't know what they put in the water here, but everyone is so moody."

She nods half-heartedly, because she feels like she can't breathe, hands shaking as they reach up to untangle her hair. She doesn't know why she is so upset all of a sudden.

"Hey," he says, quietly, taking a hold of her hands as his eyes turn soft. "It's okay to be afraid. The trick is not fighting it."

She searches his eyes, and maybe he wasn't as naive as he seemed. She licks her lips, sighs as she tries to find the words to offer an explanation. "I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to _not_ fight."

"You don't say," he snorts, eyebrows raised and she pulls her hands away from him, slapping him on the arm instead. He knocks his shoulder into hers in return as they start walking towards their rooms, starting off a story about a dream he had, featuring space and two-headed deers. And it's nice, to think about something else for a while.

.

"In two weeks, 23 of you will be dead and one of you will be alive," a stern looking woman called Tsing tells them on the first day of training, a permanent scowl on her face. "Who that depends on how well you pay attention here."

They're not allowed to fight other tributes, not during training at least. What would be the fun in that? Each day, there's four compulsory exercises, while the rest is individual training. Bellamy advises them not to show off too much, because that would be like painting a target on their backs. Tells them not to forget about the survival skills. Most tributes die of natural causes, like infection or dehydration or exposure. She still doesn't know if they can trust him, if his advice is really any use considering he's done it six times before them and none of them made it out alive, doesn't know if in the end it'll just come down to pure luck.

Finn finds her after a few hours, while she's practicing the bow and arrow, missing her third shot in a row. He snorts at the expression on her face, taking some throwing stars off the shelf for himself. "Having fun yet?"

She just glares at him, picking up another arrow, this time actually managing to hit the target. It's not a kill shot, or a good shot by any means, but it's progress. He just snickers, "Why so serious, princess? It's not like we're preparing to battle to the death."

She flinches at the nickname, but smiles despite herself once he reaches the end of the sentence. He hits the middle of the target on his first throw and she crosses her arms, pursing her lips in disdain. She can feel his eyes on her as she moves to pull back her bow.

"Stop staring, it doesn't help," Clarke mutters, lowering her arms as she turns to look at him.

It was illegal to have any sort of weapons in the district that weren't approved by the capital, hence she never got that much practice in with the bow and arrow. It makes no sense how she's not good at it, since she has pretty well developed hand-eye coordination. She's helped her mother in her healing practice since she was old enough to remember; suturing deep cuts, cleaning burns or assisting her mother with her operations. It's frustrating really, especially since she's competitive and stubborn. His smug attitude at being natural at everything isn't very beneficial either.

"It's called admiring," he defends himself, pressing a hand to his chest when she pushes him there, keeping her voice serious, informing him, "It's creepy."

He's still rubbing the spot she hit as he counters, feigning being appalled, "Hey! Admiration is the highest form of flattery."

Maybe he gets to be smug. He did grow up in the Seam, while she grew up in a much wealthier, more privileged part of the district. It still wasn't much compared to the riches of the capital, but it was more. All he _could_ rely on was being a natural while she had the advantage of having been able to practice some skills.

She scoffs, humoured as she draws another arrow, adjusting her posture. "It _actually_ isn't."

"Yeah, fine, but I'm pretty sure that if I had started flattering you, you would've pointed the next arrow at _me_ ," he opposes, as he snorts, tilting his head with his eyebrows raised.

It's a stupid joke, but begrudgingly, she smiles. Some hair is falling from his bun and into his eyes, and for the first time Clarke lets herself note he's really quite attractive. She actually considerably enjoys his company, even if sometimes she does feel trapped by his gaze. Like he's looking at her like she's someone she isn't. Like he has her all figured out, even though she doesn't have herself figured out half of the time. But.

He's funny, charming, even smart and well spoken. He makes her smile, at least, and that's something these days.

.

"Tsing told me you completed the match test in record time," Bellamy mentions over dessert a few days into training. He's obviously addressing her, even if he's too busy twisting the cap off a new bottle of moonshine to look at her.

"I didn't know you talked to the head trainers," Clarke retorts, taking a bite of a chocolate-covered strawberry, not really feeling another lecture on how she shouldn't have exposed her knowledge on edible plants just like that. Is someone really going to feel threatened by that? Thinking she's going to throw leaves at them until they die out of, what, boredom?

"Oh, princess, we don't do a whole lot of talking," he grins, almost wolfishly, and she chokes on her food, coloring at his suggestion. His stupid grin just widens and she feels stupid, naive, and much younger than she had ever since her name was drawn.

"She can identify every herb and plant out there," Finn suddenly cuts in appreciatively even though nobody asked, and Clarke turns her head to glare at him. Even if it is a welcome distraction from imagining Bellamy with Tsing.

"What?" He shrugs innocently, and she narrows her eyes trying to gauge if it's feigned or not. "You were on top of our class in Earth Skills and your mom's a healer," he explains, almost like it's a fond memory. She doesn't know _how_ he knows that, just know she can't let it pass, can't owe him anything when they go into the arena.

Bellamy just hums half-heartedly in acknowledgement, still too focused on opening up the bottle that obviously won't budge. Anya scoffs, as she stumbles into the dining room. She takes the bottle from him, opens it within a second as she pours herself glass. She has more experience with bottles, Clarke thinks, after almost eighteen years as a victor.

She regards the awkward tension between Finn and Clarke for a moment before she just rolls her eyes. "I think I'll finish _dinner_ in my room." She salutes Bellamy, stealing the bottle from him just as he's about to pour himself a glass as well.

"Finn is strong," Clarke blurts out all of a sudden. She's been racking her brain while Anya performed her daily routine of getting absolutely shit-faced, and came to the conclusion she hadn't paid half as much attention to Finn as he had to her. "He can—he can hang upside down from the monkey bars for at least two hours. And he's a really good tracker."

Finn looks smug as he opens his mouth, like he has more up his sleeve, like he's just been waiting to reveal all the little secrets he knows about her, but Bellamy beats him to it. "This whole star-crossed lovers thing is adorable and all, but I don't care."

Clarke eyes meet Finn's uncomfortably at Bellamy's suggestion, her cheeks heated. Even though he doesn't look half as embarrassed at the suggestion as she does, he's just grinning confidently, knocking his knee against hers like, _wow he's so crazy for saying that, right? Or is he?_

Star-crossed lovers her fucking ass. She didn't—she couldn't just play another part. A role. Couldn't go into the Games based on a lie. Couldn't go in there having someone else depend on her.

"Can we get real for a second," he turns to Bellamy with a determined gaze when she doesn't give him anything to work with. "How about for just a second, you get over yourself and enlighten us."

His voice is sharp when he looks at the male tribute, jaw tight. "Enlighten you _how_?"

Finn smirks, big and eager, but also intrusional and insistent, making her feel uneasy, like she's back to being a small, unknowing kid. Finn seems to think Bellamy is withholding some sort of life-alternating secret, deadset on it actually. Clarke doesn't think he has, and even if he does, she isn't sure he would want to share it with them. "How to win."

"You just don't get it, do you?" He barks, all of a sudden, putting his cutlery down with a loud clang on the table. His nostrils are flared, whole body tense. The tributes both flinch back, and Clarke's nails dig deeper into her thighs. His voice is scarily calm, but his eyes are dark, wild and angry, almost pleading. "Nobody _wins_ the games. There's just 23 dead kids, and one who makes it out alive." He rubs a hand over his face, frustrated, sitting back in his chair. As an afterthought, he mumbles, "If you can even call it that."

Clarke thinks of Anya, how she's not once seen the woman sober, thinks of Bellamy, too, how distant he is and how sometimes his eyes glaze over with something dark and pained and he can't talk for a few moments. Maybe he is right. Maybe you can barely call it living.

"If we win," Finn starts after an uncomfortable silence. He catches the incredulity in Clarke's eyes and clears his throat, correcting himself, "If _I_ win, I'll take over mentor duties from you, okay? It looks like you've had— _enough_ of it." It's not meant as an insult, Clarke actually thinks he means it as some sort of twisted favor, but it sounds pejorative anyway.

"How noble of you," Bellamy spats without too much heat, like he figures it's no use wasting his breath on Finn, like he's already a lost cause, but there's an underlying tension that Clarke can't quite place.

He doesn't say anything else during dinner, Finn making small talk with her like nothing happened, but she catches his eye as he's getting up from the table. He looks almost sad, like he's gauging if she feels the same about him as Finn. Like she thinks about him as less, like he's broken, like anyone else would be a better mentor than him. Even a kid from the Seam who hasn't even stepped foot into an arena.

She wants to say something, but she doesn't quite know what, because he hasn't actually been that great of a mentor has he? He's often been too pissed at her for whatever reason to hold a conversation. Then again, could anything he tells them _really_ prepare them for the Games? He's probably figured out by now that the answer's no. This isn't his first time as a mentor and he's probably just going through the motions. Before she can think of anything to say, to comfort him in the slightest way because no, _she doesn't think less of him for putting up walls after what he went through she just doesn't particularly like him_ , he's disappeared into his room.

The day before their evaluation day—private sessions where the tributes have to perform their best skill in front of the Gamemakers in order to be ranked—she can't sleep. She actually spend most of her time at the camouflage station, just because she missed painting so much. It feels stupid now. Everything feels stupid, and wrong, and Clarke's certain she's going to die.

Sighing, she rolls over in her bed, turning her head to look outside. It's rowdy outside, the citizens of Polis too excited about the games to care about regular people's sleeping schedule. Rubbing her eyes, she sits up, before deciding to get something to drink. It's no use trying to sleep when she's this wired. She's been there before.

She downs a glass of water in the kitchen, and another because the coolness of the liquid settling in her stomach seems to be able to clear her head just a little. Next, she notices someone in front of the windows in the living room. They span the entire height of the wall, ending at a small platform. Carefully, she pads closer, realizing it's Bellamy when it's too late to retract. He's perched on top of the marble window seat, knees pulled to his chest, arms resting on top of them.

He's already noticed her. He doesn't take his gaze off the streets outside, but addresses her anyway, "You have abnormally loud footsteps, princess." She doesn't know if it's just an observation or a warning for when she goes into the arena, but she's too tired to decipher it. She sits down across from his quietly, folding her bare legs underneath her, her black sleeping shorts creeping up to reveal more of her thighs.

"Can't sleep?" She offers, instead of some hateful sneer that she has no energy for. She follows his gaze to the crowds outside, cheering on the tributes they're showing on the screens. The youngest this year is thirteen. Clarke tastes the sick in her mouth every time she thinks about it.

"What are you doing up?" He mutters, resting his chin on top of his arm as he ignores her question. He doesn't say what his judgemental tone is suggesting. Tomorrow is important, she should be well-rested. Well, mistake her for wondering why he'd even care. He doesn't seem like he'd be too affected if they both die. If she dies.

Besides, Clarke is used to getting short amounts of sleep. Nightmares about her father come more often than not, like flashes of a life she never had but where something always feel off. Her father is there, during her school play, or her wedding, or just dinner with her and her mom—sometimes it's as obvious as his entire body being covered in burns or the walls collapsing in on them, other times it's just that she feels strangely unhappy and almost numb, or like has that weird gut feeling something bad is about to happen.

She doesn't skip a beat, opting to go with a more teasing tone. She isn't in for an argument, so she won't be the one to start it. Even if he's giving her plenty of reasons to. "Maybe I felt like being around someone I don't actually like."

He lets out a small, humoured huff and she tries hard to hide a victorious smile.

"Look at them," he scoffs, under his breath as he leans his head back. Clarke dares to look at him out of the corner of his eyes, taking in how the moonlight gleams off his skin, the way his biceps flex, the tension in his jawline, the freckles that cover his face—it's hard to swallow all of a sudden, her cheeks feeling warm. She decides to say something, just to make sure her mind doesn't go _there_.

"I don't want it to change me, them to change me," she admits, voice low. She picks at a loose thread of her shorts, lets out a sharp breath as she closes her eyes to collect her thoughts. "Turn me into something I'm not."

He shifts his head so he's looking at her, lowering one leg as he rest an elbow on his other knee, and she thinks he's a different kind of attractive than Finn; darker, more insistent, like a fire, warmth coiling up in her lower belly. "You mean you won't kill anyone?" He can't keep the skepticism out of his voice.

She huffs, meeting his eyes. Sure, that's a tactic some have tried before, even though it never really works out in anyone's favor. She's always been a healer, was always supposed to take over her mother's practice when she was old and experienced enough. Hurting people wasn't in her DNA, but she figures that if she absolutely had to, she probably would. It's human instinct to survive. She wets her lips, considers her next words carefully. "No, I just... I want to show them that they don't own me."

He breathes a long, heavy sigh. It isn't the first time she notices the dark bags under his eyes. "I understand what you mean, I do." He stares at the wall over her shoulder, like he's trying to keep something contained, doesn't want her to read too much into his next words. "I just couldn't—I could never afford to think like that. I have a little sister."

She still doesn't know much about him, but this is new. A sister. Might explain why he volunteered. She also knows what it implies, indirectly. Polis won't hesitate to punish a victor when they won't comply. That's fine when it's just you they're trying to hurt, a whole other story if you have people you care about.

"You know," he says, heavy and her eyes snap back to his. She didn't expect him to have more to say to her after that. It's the most personal thing he's revealed so far. His shoulders are tense, defensive, but more like he's disappointed in himself more than anything. "I was actually _happy_ when you got reaped, because it meant that my sister would never have to go into that arena."

"She's eighteen?" Clarke clarifies after a beat, deciding this is not the hill she is going to die on. Everyone at home that wasn't her mom and Wells felt some sort of relief, like she did when Finn got reaped and her best friend didn't. She can hardly be offended he would pick his sister over a stranger.

He nods, just once, still rigid. It's obviously a touchy subject for him.

She hesitates, not sure if she should push this when he's finally having a real moment with her, not no scolding or yelling or condescension involved. But, this might be her only chance, and he still looks a little guilty about his admission. She swallows tight, lets another beat pass. She runs a hand through her hair, then carefully, "Is she the one you volunteered for?"

He lets out another sharp breath, avoiding her eyes as he nods, just slightly, and if she hadn't been paying such close attention she'd have missed it. "Her name is Octavia. She is my sister, my responsibility." He explains that his Games took place the year an epidemic wiped out half of Panem's population, mostly elders and children. District twelve was one of the districts that was hit the hardest, because the living conditions were poor and starvation ran high. "They told us that, just this once, they would make an exception—"

"—out of the goodness of their hearts, mhm?" Clarke counters skeptically. It's no secret that she harbors no love for the capital, Polis, what it represents. As far as she's concerned, Polis is what killed her father, traumatized her mother, made her have to look over her shoulder every day of her life. Polis is what stands idly by while hundreds of people in the poorer districts die of starvation, while they feast daily. Polis is what kills 23 children each year and has the nerve to ask their families to be thankful for it.

"Something like that," he huffs, the hint of a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. "One tribute from each district, to remind us that the capital was merciful, to remind us the districts' numbers are small and futile against the vast resources of Polis." He recites it like he's reading it from a introductory pamphlet to the Games. Sourly, he adds, "So merciful, being the solution to a problem they created."

"What are you implying?" She checks, heartbeat speeding up, finding themselves on a dangerous path. All she can hope is that the capital isn't actively listening to their conversation right now.

Something flashes across his eyes, but its gone before she can analyze it. He's obviously put a lot of thought in this. "I'm not _implying_ anything. I'm just pointing out that overpopulation had been a huge pain in the ass for Wallace for years and then there's a virus that mostly hits the poor districts, a virus the capital just so happens to conveniently have a vaccination against within a week, before it had a chance to reach Polis? A story that, once again, makes them look like the good guy? Like the heroes?"

She remembers her mother's words. _There are no good guys in the capital, remember that, Clarke._ Her stomach twists painfully, mouth tasting foul. It all just seems so useless, she feels so powerless.

He must have dissected the look on her face, because he pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head a little like he suddenly remembers where they are, who she is. He changes the subject back to his sister. He tries not to sound bitter. "I got lucky. She got reaped the only year I could save her."

 _Lucky_ , she thinks, sourly, regarding him sadly. Lucky he got to fight eleven other kids to the death. He just narrows his eyes, obviously not caring for her pity. She circles back, eyes fluttering closed, mouth creeping down into a frown. "I just—I don't want to be another piece in their games."

"Look, Clarke, in the arena," he starts, and her name sounds weird and wonderful in his mouth all at the same time. His eyes find hers again, and their soft, warming her body unfamiliarly. "Who you are and who you need to be to survive are two very different things."

He pauses at the uncertainty on her face, wringing his fingers together almost nervously, then adds, "The only person who's going to hold anything you do in the games against you, is yourself." He seems to speak from experience, eyes pained, but she doesn't dare to poke and prod the subject any further.

She hadn't actually considered this before. Considered that maybe, he was distancing himself because _he_ needed to. Because he couldn't get attached, had to protect himself.

"Thank you," she says eventually, probably softer than necessary. Even if half of the advice he gives is cynical, or laced with disdain, they couldn't do this without him.

His brows furrow together, like he's trying to figure out if there's anyway he misunderstood the two words that just came out of her mouth. He scoffs. "I don't know what you want me to say, princess."

"I want you to say that you're with us," she presses, seriously. Maybe if he could give this a real shot, they would have one. On a lighter note, she argues, "I mean, if me and Finn are both going to die in that arena, we might as well make the best out of it."

He sits up a little, before tentatively reaching out to cover her forearm with his large, warm hand. Their skin contrasts starkly. He shakes his head lightly, then admits, incessant, "Of course I am with you." The sincerity of his voice takes her aback. His eyes flicker over her legs for a second, before meeting her gaze. "But know that if you die, your Anya's. I have a reputation to uphold."

She chokes on half a laugh, pushing his hand off her arm pointedly and it feels less tense all of a sudden, thankfully. "I'm going to catch some sleep."

He just hums in agreement, a faint smile on his lips as he turns back to the window. "You do that."

As soon as her head hits the pillow, sleep overcomes her. She barely has time to think about the shiver that went up her spine when he touched her, eyes intent on hers, what it all means, before she's out cold.

.

Too low and you're easy pickings and might as well paint a target on your back, too high and the careers make it their personal mission to murder you with their bare hands. There was no way to actually do _good_ during the private sessions.

She's on the couch, flanked by Anya and Finn, as Bellamy stands to the side by the window nonchalantly. Lincoln is on one of the armchairs, as calm as ever, next to Finn's mean-looking stylist, Roma.

The female victor is practically passed out, body draped over half the couch so, awkwardly, Clarke is practically pressed up against her fellow tribute. They've counted up to a score of 4 on the television screen—only a handful of tributes having been scored—Clarke's bottom lip caught between her teeth nervously.

(Beforehand, in the waiting room, a tribute from district five had been whispering about an uprising in her district after an eighty year old man was flogged for not reaching his quota at the fishery that week. She hadn't said the R-word out loud, but it'd made the hairs on the back of Clarke's neck stand up straight.

Finn had caught her eye, shaking his head and causing some strands of hair to fall into his face. More to himself than her, he'd muttered, "Like uprisings would solve anything."

She had frowned, stopped her knee from bouncing up and down nervously, suddenly more preoccupied with his warped worldview than nerves. She'd tried to keep her voice low, not draw any attention from the other tributes. "You think sitting back and taking it is solving anything? Need I remind you that these are the _73th_ games?"

He'd shrugged one shoulder, noncommittal, rubbing the palms of his hands on his thighs. Another victor got called to the training room, speeding up Clarke's pulse and they'd been quiet for a moment.

"I do believe that one day we'll have peace, but I don't think a rebellion is the right way to get here," he had admitted, quiet, like he'd given this a lot of thought already. Maybe people talked about it more often, in the Seam, maybe they had more reasons. "Too many people will have to die."

"People are already dying," she'd bit back, probably a little too loud, some other tributes turning their heads into her direction. Pressing her nails into the palms of her hands, she had closed her eyes, tried to collect herself.

It'd had not been the place, nor the time to have a discussion about whether or not a rebellion should take place. Not when they were being scored on behalf of a killing game that was recreated as retribution for the last rebellion they had.

"How many more people need to die before you realize we're already at war?" She'd murmured, low, rubbing her temples. The words had more meaning now. It was something Anya had thrown into Bellamy's face during one of their seventeen daily arguments earlier that day, reminding him it's what he'd yelled at the camera's when he won his games. Anya knew just how to push his buttons.

"Who told you that?" He'd asked sharply, like he'd recognized it from somewhere, like she'd just personally stabbed him in the ribs.

"It's something Bellamy—" technically, and she'd had more to add, like context, but he didn't let her finish, eyes narrowed at her admission. Suddenly, he'd harbored much more animosity against their mentor than before. She didn't know if it'd been some misplaced sense of jealousy or something else entirely.

"You trust him?" He had wrung his hands together, actually looked appalled there for a second. At her stoney expression, he'd amplified his concern. "You can't be serious."

She tried to think about it, ask herself if she actually does, but the answer was already pretty clear. You don't have to like someone to trust them.

"I do," she had searched his face, then faintly nodded. "I am."

"You're too good," he had said softly, another tribute disappearing into the training room at the call of their name. He'd reached up to run a thumb over her cheek, making her flush, mouth feeling dry all of a sudden as she'd drowned out the urge to defend Bellamy, like she'd be granting him some gratuitous favor just by not thinking of him as the most evil person to ever exist. She hadn't wanted to take it too far, though, not when Finn was already so apprehensive and nobody else was even part of the conversation, so she'd bit her tongue.

She'd wondered if Finn would still feel the same way about her after the Games, if he were to survive.)

They're up to six now, as she absentmindedly plays with her father's pin in her hand. Finn looks over at her, smiles sweetly as he takes her hand in his, a gesture of reassurance she thinks. She tenses at first, but then lets him. He actually cares about her, and it's nice. The physical comfort.

Finn's name is called. An eight. He sinks back into the couch, visibly relieved, and Lincoln gives him a congratulatory pat on the knee. "An eight, that's good."

Finn had taken the rope course during his session, and Clarke had eventually settled on taking the obstacle course on the gauntlets. Even though she should've gone with the match game, a memory game based on non-edible and edible plants and insects. The camouflage would've been better, too, at any given point in time. She just didn't want to take the easy way out, do what people expected of her. It would make it seem like memorizing poisonous berries was her only skill, which maybe it was.

It takes a few more tributes before one of the game hosts—Cage Wallace, who, yes, is the son of their president, Dante, talk about nepotism—calls out her name. She is stunned for a moment or two, breath caught in the back of her throat. _Eleven_.

Clarke frowns at the screen, feeling like her head might explode, running her free hand over her braid. She did relatively well, not falling off any of the gauntlets, just tripping a handful of times. Most certainly not was it worth _this_ many points. Maybe a seven or an eight, tops. She purses her lips in confusion. "Okay, maybe I was decent enough, but it definitely wasn't worth an eleven."

Bellamy looks unimpressed, eyes flickering over their joint hands for just a second, voice almost comical, "Yeah, they do this sometimes. Amp up the scores of the lower districts, turn them into targets. Makes for good a good show." His jaw is clenched.

Lincoln sends her a empathic look, corners of his mouth turned up slightly, opening his mouth to probably reassure her when Anya laughs, boldly, all of a sudden, startling Clarke. "Maybe this is going to be worth watching after all."

.

She's alarmingly calm as she waits for her interview backstage. Mel, from district 11, is up, so it won't be long before she has to take the stage as well. She tries to mentally run over all the media training that was thrown at her head the past few days, but the most she took away from it was that she should be absolutely elated she was reaped. She can lie her way out of most things, but she's not _that_ good of an actress, so it's probably futile to try.

"You know, it won't kill you to smile a little," Bellamy claims, mischievous glint in his eyes, appearing at her side. Their arms brush for a second, and she finds it incredibly frustrating. The way her body responds to his presence without her permission. "This is such a _joyous_ occasion."

She pulls on the blue, sequined gown, blowing some hair from her face as one of Lincoln's assistants sends her a dirty look. Right, she's not allowed to touch her hair, face, or dress. This one has the four arrows on the ridiculous train of the dress, Lincoln promising her people wouldn't forget her entrance any time soon.

Bellamy is following the slit up her leg, before his eyes land on her face. There's dark black lines below her eyes, hair half-up with some intricate braids woven through it. Some of the hair is streaked red, to match her district. His eyes are little glazy. He doesn't even bother pretending to be ashamed of being caught in the act of checking her out. He even glances back down at her cleavage for a second.

"Are you drunk?" She demands, blunt. He rolls his eyes, shrugging idly, his hand wrapping around her shoulder. His thumb barely brushes against the column of her neck, making her skin flush. "Does it matter?" He counters, lighthearted.

The boy from district 11 is up next. Clarke crosses her arms over her chest, shrugging his arm off her shoulders. He sends her a challenging look in response.

" _You_ should get a drink," he suggests, matter-of-factly. "You know. Loosen up a little. Have some fun. Smile once in a while." He smirks. "As your mentor, I would know."

"Well thank God we all know your advice isn't worth shit," she spits back, not believing he could get drunk at such a pivotal moment. If she fucks up, she loses about every chance of getting sponsors.

He presses a hand to his heart, feigning hurt. Finn turns up on her other side, and she pretends to focus on his story about how scary Roma is, even though her blood is boiling.

Some flushed, excited assistant calls her over soon enough, announcing it's her turn. She's almost glad to get away from the two of them. Her dress literally glows and sparkles in the spotlights all the way to the stage; Cage fawning over the effects; the crowd ooh-ing and aah-ing appreciatively. Beside a few hiccups, she gets through the interview relatively unscathed. Then again, she's always had a way with words. Plus, she manages not to snap at any slimey remarks that rat Cage makes or make a plea for the districts to overthrow the government, so that's good, at least.

Finn is up next, and he is mostly a charming self. Then, Cage starts asking about his love life and things go to shit. In fact, so shitty, that as soon as he comes backstage, she has him against the wall, arm pressing against his windpipe angrily. She didn't even know she had that in her.

 _So, is there a special girl back home?_ Cage is a leech. _No, no. There's just this one girl, that I've had a crush on, since I was maybe, six years old._ Clarke had shifted uncomfortably backstage, shoulders tight. There was still so much she didn't know about him. Cage had cocked an eyebrow, intrigued, _Oh_. Finn had chuckled low, looked shy all of a sudden, it didn't suit him. _Yeah, well, I don't think she even knew about my excistence until I got reaped._ Finn had never looked like the person who wouldn't go up to a girl and talk to her, especially if he'd had his eye on her for so long. Cage looks like he's just eating this right up. _Look at it this way, if you win, she'll have to get with you._ Clarke had scoffed at that. _Thanks_ , he'd smiled, soft and sad, almost making Clarke, out of all people, feel sorry for him, _but I don't think that'll help_. Cage shifted even closer, like this just couldn't get any better. Television gold. _Why is that, Finn?_ It almost looked like his eyes glanced over backstage, before he'd cleared his throat. _Well. Because she came here with me_.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She sneers, right into his face. He just looks panicked, surprised. Blue eyes wide and confused, like he doesn't actually understand what he just did. Like he did her a fucking favor.

Bellamy peels her off him without too much difficulty. He seems to mostly be out of the giddy, creepy drunkenness stage, having moved into the more dark, sullen phase. She's glad he sobered up in time for this television worthy drama. "What are you doing?" He hisses, grip on her wrists tight. She yanks them loose, watches him close his eyes in annoyance.

"Did you hear what he said to Wallace?" She spits back, practically stomping her foot, chest heaving up and down irregularly. Her entire face feels hot with anger. He said, he said that they were part of some sick, tragic love story. Turned her into some silly little girl, who's just waiting around for love, for someone to save her. Just so, what, he could incite some compassion from the sponsors on his behalf? "He made me look _weak_."

He honest to God laughs, more bitter than anything. "Look, princess, half the time you're walking around here looking like you're ready to murder someone. That's fine when it's just the tributes, but when it comes to sponsors—that's a dead sentence." He makes a point of looking at Finn. "He made you look _desirable_. Like I asked him to."

"You asked him to do this? This is, this is such bullsh—" She is so angry. She at least thought he had her back. Some small part of her even had the audacity to think that maybe, maybe he cared more about her, than Finn. Yet here is, plotting to get more sympathy points on his behalf.

"Star-crossed lovers I can sell," Bellamy insists, and his hand is warm as it presses down firmly on her shoulder, grounding her. "A self-proclaimed isolated girl from district 12 with a permanent frown on her face and a martyr complex, not so much."

She exhales sharply through her nose, forcing her voice not to shake. "We're _not_ star-crossed lovers," she presses, almost petulant as she narrows her eyes at Finn. He still looks like he didn't just actively did something to change her story against her will. Some of it had to be true, what he said, if he agreed to do something Bellamy asked of him, but she doesn't want there to be any misunderstandings. "But what's done is done. I can't very well not take part in this ruse now, because then _I'll_ be the cold-hearted bitch who broke the beautiful innocent boy's heart for no good reason."

Bellamy's jaw clenches, "We all have our parts to play, princess." Her head snaps to meet his eyes, a scowl on her face. He doesn't get to hold a private conversation against her. Even if he's right.

Granted, not too much changes. There's just more of the hand-holding, soft looks in public, his arm around her shoulder. She gets a feeling Finn doesn't have to pretend as hard as she does. Sometimes it's nice, to pretend. It works. People from the capital suddenly warm up to her, give her endeared looks and squeeze her arms in passing. _Oh young love. Isn't it precious?_

So precious, they're sending them into an arena to die.

"Thank you," she tells Bellamy, irritable, after one of Lincoln's assistants just gave her a bright smile, the first one since Clarke arrived in Polis. All because she witnessed her give Finn a goodbye hug. She looks at the clock—anything to avoid his smug face—and she has five more minutes before she has to get on the aircraft bringing her to the arena.

"Wow, the princess? Thanking? Me?" He mocks her, but it lacks any real dedication.

She'd apologized to Finn, way earlier, moments after she tried to knock the breath out of him, quite literally. He was easier to apologize to. He'd accepted immediately. Hadn't hung her apology above her head as the punchline of a joke. Which is exactly the reason she's telling Bellamy this now, since she is about to die.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, wrapping her arms around herself. She grits her teeth, hates herself. "Can you tell my mom—"

"You tell her," he cuts her off, stern, leaving no room for an argument. "You're not dying, Clarke. If you go in there thinking you are, you're already dead."

She pushes out a large breath, nodding, curt. She presses her lips together. "Any last advice, mentor?" It's supposed to be a light-hearted joke, but it falls flat. Her voice too somber.

He shrugs, arm crossed over his chest, and she figures he's probably said everything he had to. Finally, he offers, lamely, "Don't die."

She flips him off in retaliation, and the door opens to reveal two peacekeepers. She takes a deep breath, brushing a loose strand away from her face. Nervousness overtakes her, pulse a gallop, chest tight with anxiety. Bellamy must register the change in posture, because he softens. A scar peeks out from under his black henley. She frowns, eyes focusing on it, and the corners of his lips turns up slightly, reaching out to touch her braid, adjusting it on her shoulder.

He lets out a small, quiet chuckle, observing the plait hair like it suddenly revealed the truth of the universe to him. He meets her eyes, watching her, taking her in. "May we meet again."

It's something of a parting phrase in District 12, some parts of other districts, too. The poorer ones. They never knew for certain if they were going to see each other again—starvation, dehydration, cold weather, a kid stepping on an old mine the capital didn't bother cleaning up—but it kept hope alive. That, maybe, maybe they would. And if they wouldn't, at least they would know there was somebody out there who cared.

It's fitting. She smiles, sad, swallowing as she nods her head. She has more to say, so much more, but there would never be enough time. If she dies, it doesn't matter anyway. "May we meet again."

.

The arena is a forest. Her arena is a forest, these are _her_ games. District twelve is surrounded by woods, so maybe the odds were in their favor for once. Six children die the first ten minutes. Clarke doesn't witness much of it, because as soon as the starting sign booms through the arena, she's running away from the cornucopia like Bellamy told her to. She's not about to have her head bashed in by Otan, who's already looking at her like prize. _Eleven_ , she remembers.

She manages to avoid any altercations, avoid any tributes. Find water, like her mentor told her. With some difficulty, she manages to get up in one of the trees, to try and sleep there. At least she won't be easily spotted there, won't be like unconscious prey propped up against some log, ready to be slayed.

Twelve canons go off before her first night there. Each canon indicating another dead tribute.

Torn from a light slumber by something unknown, Clarke shoots up, almost losing her balance on the tree, heart pounding loudly in her ears. It wasn't one of her usual nightmares that woke her, someone was screaming. Is screaming.

She looks around, tries to see where the screams are coming from. Then she spots him.

It's the thirteen year old boy from Floukru, small and panicked, his curls bouncing everywhere. It's the youngest tribute this year. He's running, Clarke realizes, running away from someone. She hears whoever is chasing him laugh, manic, diabolic. Squinting her eyes, she realizes it's Otan and the other careers, two other tributes as well. They must've joined their alliance. They're _enjoying_ this, she realizes, sick rising up her throat. The boy, probably realizing he can't outrun them, hides behind a tree near her. She adjust her position in the tree quietly, something catching her attention in the corner of her eye.

It's a nest. A nest of tracker jackers—genetically manipulated wasps that are lethal to most people, depending on the amount of stings. Best cast scenario if you get stung, you have horrible, maddening hallucinations.

The boy screams as Otan grabs him by the arm, smirking devilishly. He's listening the ways he could kill him, taunting him as his friends laugh. Clarke decides it's a risk she's willing to take.

She tries to cover up as much of her bare skin, pulling her sleeves over her hands as she starts pulling on the nest, pulling and pulling, until it starts to give in. She winces as one stings her in the neck, almost cries out when another one punctures her right on the hand.

She has to act quick. "Hey!" She yells, letting out a yelp of pain as another stings her in the arm. "Hey!" She repeats firmer, voice hoarse, but finally catching their attention as they drag the boy along to her tree. She knows just how to push their buttons. "Here I am, the girl from district 12 who's going to beat the odds and murder you all."

She catches the boy's eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. Ontari, one of the other careers, is saying something, or more like sneering, but she can't look away from the boy. Run, she mouths, then drops the nest right on top of them, vision already blurring.

She doesn't know how she makes it down the tree, just hears more screams as the entire alliance splits up into different directions. She's running, too, more stumbling around because it's hard to see, but she doesn't know where.

She notices her dad standing in front of her at one point, reaches out for him, but gasps when he grabs her hand, roughly, throws her against a tree. _You were supposed to make me proud._ There's more faces, at once, towering over her laughing. It's the careers, she realizes, they're laughing, teeth sharp, blood running down their faces, dripping onto her face. She claws at her skin, screams, and then everything turns black.

Clarke surges awake, panicked. She doesn't know where she is, and it's starting to get dark. How long was she out? Has she been spotted? She scrambles up, quickly, figuring that'll give her a better chance of analyzing the scenery.

A scared girl from district eight, who she thinks is called Madi, runs quite literally, straight into her. "D-don't kill me, please don't kill me!" She yells, shaking all over, a panicked look in her eyes. Like she's not actually there. Clarke takes her by the arms, hard as she narrows her eyes. "Be quiet!"

She can hear voices, they're not alone. She drags Madi over to a nearby patch of dense trees, before spotting a small cave and pulling her into it. They have to crouch to fit, but at least they're not out in the open. She covers the entrance with some branches as well as she can, shushing Madi as she turns back to her. She's breathing so heavily Clarke can't hear her own thoughts.

"One of the sponsors," Madi whimpers, as she starts to feel around in her pockets. Clarke eyes widen as she tries to move away hurriedly from the other tribute, but the smaller girl shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. "No, no," she pulls out her hand to reveal a small card, voice soft. "One of the sponsors they send medicine, for your—your stings. It came, it came down in a silver parachute."

Clarke stance relaxes as she takes a hold of the card. _Brave princess. - B._ The corner of her lips turn up just slightly, despite herself. An image flashes through her mind; Bellamy's smile, the freckles on his nose, those stupid curls, warmth. Then it's gone. She can't afford to linger too long.

"You saved Myles," Madi says quietly, bringing her back to reality. She's lean, lanky in a pre-pubescent way. She's young, too. Can't be older than fourteen. "You killed two tributes. One of the careers, too," she adds, obviously impressed, almost in awe. Clarke's hand shake as she brushes some of her hair back.

She focuses on the numbers. Twelve dead the first day. Then there's the two tributes and the career that, that died. That's fifteen. There's three more careers, eighteen. Leaves her, Madi, Myles and Finn, 22. Plus two more tributes.

Suddenly it strikes her, head snapping up to meet Madi. Her jaw clenches. "Where's Myles?"

Madi swallows hard, explains that he got stung once, but it wasn't too bad. Her eyes widened at Clarke's guilty expression. It really wasn't, he was fine! Then they found her passed out, had to drag her out of the open field. Covered her up with leaves until the medicine came. She slept all the way through. They used some of it for Myles, too. He went to get some water from the pond, because Madi was too afraid by herself. They couldn't leave Clarke alone so he went. A canon went off.

"I'm sorry," Clarke whispers, hoarsely, throat dry. She wants to say more, offer her some more comfort, but in the end it be more for her own benefit than Madi's. "I'm... sorry."

"There's more," Madi swallows hard, lip quivering as her mouth opens slightly. Clarke nods, urges her to go on. "They… One of the careers, they wrote something on the cornucopia, with his blood."

"What," Clarke blurts out, eyes darting from one spot to another as she tries to rack her brain for an answer. Why would they, why…

There's doubt on Madi's face, even as she speaks. "We're coming for you, twelve."

Clarke inhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before forcing Madi to sit down. Asks her when she last ate, wipes some of her long brown hair back from her face. She has a few cuts on her skin here and there, probably from the branches. She smiles, small, pulls something else from the pocket off her coat. It's a fish, wrapped in leaves. "I saved some for you, in case you woke up."

They share the fish. It's nothing fancy, or anything that really stills their hunger, but it's food. Luckily, Madi already prepared it above a fire the day before, so they can eat it without risking getting sick. Clarke smiles at her, genuine. She's smart.

"Why did you do that?" Madi wonders, quietly as she sniffs. She is no longer crying, but her cheeks are still red. "Why did you save him?"

(Lincoln had attached her father's pin to her uniform earlier in the launch room. The only time she'd let a tear escape. She didn't know if she could even cry now. If she did, she might not be able to stop.)

Clarke watches her, doesn't know what to say. She finishes off her part of the fish, throws the inedible remains away from them. They're pressed against a wall, side by side, limbs outstretched.

"Because they were being cruel," she answers eventually, honestly. "And no matter what they force us do in here, there's no reason to be cruel. He's just a kid. He was. He didn't choose to be here, and even if _they_ did—" She grits her teeth. "It's not who we have to be to survive."

She thinks of Bellamy, the things they made him do, the things that screwed him up so bad. He had every reason not to help her. Still, he was kind and caring in his own weird way when no one was paying too close attention. He didn't let them change him, whether he'd like to admit that or not.

Madi nods, folding her long thin legs underneath her as she carefully rests her head on Clarke's shoulder. She freezes for a second before pushing out a deep breath. This girl is not the enemy. "How long was I out?"

"Two days." She throws the fish carcass against the wall across from them, wiping her wet, greasy fingers on her pants. She shifts her head so she's staring up at Clarke through her thick lashes.

Clarke avoids her eyes. "How many…?" She can't bring herself to actually say it. She's not sure she actually wants to hear how many canons went off. Right now she can pretend it's just her and Madi, just for a second.

"Besides the one you killed," her voice trails off, casual as she seems to be thinking about it. Her hair tickles Clarke's face and the blonde reaches up to pat it down, run her fingers through it until the knots disappear. Her mom used to do it for her, and it always felt calming. "Just once more."

Panic crawls up her throat like a hand is closing around it, trying to choke her and her hand stills on the smaller girl's head. Madi smiles at the look on her face, faint. "A girl from district four."

It means he's still out there. It's not just her and Madi. Finn is still alive.

"Is all of that true?" She whispers into the dark, just as Clarke shifts to put her arm around the girl's thin frame instead. A camera buzzes, like it's changing angles.

Clarke opens her mouth to respond, but closes it. She recognizes the hopeful look in the smaller girl's eyes but she doesn't want to die lying. She stretches out her legs a little, trying to get more comfortable. "Maybe it could've been."

She likes Finn. She does. He's light, and charming, and impulsive and sweet, very sweet. He cares about her. But right now, in the dark, she can't feed a broken girl more lies, more false hope. So yes, maybe if they had more time, if she met him before the Games, or if by some miracle they both walk away from this arena.

Madi just adjusts her head on Clarke's chest, then her shaking, boney fingers take the blonde's in hers, understanding. Polis made sure they would stay maybe's. Clarke's other hand finds the pin strapped to her chest. Even if it could really keep anything bad from happening to her… She looks at Madi. It didn't mean the people around her would be safe, too.

.

Clarke figures they can't stay in the cave too long, like sitting ducks. It's too closed off, only one way out. They're out of water, out of food, they need to move.

They try and move to the woods quietly. Clarke tries to keep talking to Madi in a low voice, comforting her. There's seven of them left. There's Clarke and Madi. Finn. There's Otan, Ontari and Dax. And one more tribute. Atom, Madi thinks.

"We can't take out the careers, not by ourselves," she says more to herself than Madi at this point, squeezing her hand. Clarke isn't the best in hand-to-hand combat, and Madi looks like one hard gush of wind might blow her over. "There's no way we'll survive that." She needs to find a way to take them out at the same time.

They're resting for a while, when another parachute drops down at their feet. It's bread, from Floukru. "Myles' district," Madi concludes, stuffing her mouth. She smiles sheepishly at the look on Clarke's face, cheeks flushed. "Sorry, I'm hungry."

Clarke laughs, squeezing her shoulder jokingly, telling her it's fine as she takes the other half of the bread from her. Districts usually don't send products to tributes that aren't their own, especially not the lesser fortunate ones. She smiles thankfully, tucking the card away in her coat carefully. She pulls some berries she collected earlier from her other pocket, handing them to Madi.

"It's like jam. We deserve a fancy meal, right?" Madi's toothy grin in response sends a chill through Clarke's body. She isn't sure what she's trying to accomplish here. They can't both make it out alive.

A branch snaps behind them and Clarke rises to her feet quickly, pulling Madi up with her as she examines their surroundings. Her heart is pounding loud in her chest, whole body on defensive mode as she keeps her arm in front of the smaller girl. Then someone steps away from behind a tree. It's Finn.

"I found you," he breathes, and they're hugging. When she pulls away, he holds up a backpack, grinning widely. She gives him a funny look, before it dawns in on her. Finn ran right into the cornucopia, even though Bellamy explicitly told them not to. It's a bloodbath and it shows. Twelve tributes died. Still, her fellow Delifkru tribute managed to come out unscathed.

"You're crazy," she simply tells him, opening the bag to reveal a lot of useful contents. Rope, a hunting knife, provisions, a water bottle. She pushes him, playfully. "You really are."

"I'm a fast runner," he retorts, like it's not big deal but he's still smiling as he hands her the spear that was in his other hand. He was good with throwing things, so it made sense he would've gone for it.

"Your footsteps were _way_ too easy to track." She feels a small pang at the memory, avoiding his gaze shamefully. He looks at Madi. "And who might this lovely lady be?"

As he's talking to Madi, he looks over at her, grinning stupidly. Clarke smiles back as she works on uncapping the water bottle, speer resting at her feet. She's happy, more happy than she'd thought, that they're back together. She's grateful, not just because he gave them a better shot at surviving, but because he's from home. The closest thing to it, at least.

Still, a part of her wonders as Madi settles in between her legs so she can braid her hair, intently listening to a story Finn is telling in a hushed whisper. Wonders if the capital is loving this. The people at home just _swooning_ over them. A small bitter part wonders if she's giving them a good show.

As they near the water, Clarke notices something weird about the ground. It looks like parts of it have been tossed around and reinstated, leaving uneven, darker patches of dirt on some spots. She sends Finn a questioning look, about to ask him if he knows anything about it when the third member of their alliance hops up and down.

"We're here," Madi breathes excitedly, running ahead of them. She told them earlier she'd never seen open water. Clarke hears the sound of a distant click, lungs on fire as she speeds up to try and catch up with the younger girl. _They re-planted the mines._

"Madi, no!" She yells out, but it's too late, a blast of heat pushing her away, blasting her against a tree. When she gets up, her ears ring and her stomach turns as Madi's blood and God knows what else drips down her skin. She leans against the tree and heaves, and heaves, and heaves. At one point, Finn comes over and pulls her towards the water.

He hastily cleans her up, washes the soot and blood off her before pulling her further into the woods. "They also heard the blast," he reminded her, filling up his bottle quickly, "We can't stay here any longer."

After a mile or so, he finally pauses, setting her against a tree, taking care of her cuts. She hasn't said anything, has just been shaking, been playing the image of Madi being blown to pieces on repeat. He keeps trying to make small talk, but Clarke can't bring herself to speak.

Suddenly, someone speeds past them. Clarke blinks, looks at Finn to confirm that actually just happened. He looks as confused as her, as they both turn towards the direction the person came from. Fire. He pulls her up, quick, leading her away from the burning trees. The fire is too high, too uniformed. It's not natural fire. The gamemakers must be getting bored. They must think it's taking too long.

A ball of fire misses their heads by an inch, colliding with a tree instead. The blow causes it to fall over, and they manage to avoid being trampled by it just in time. More fireballs come as they try to outrun the heat, and for once, Clarke is grateful she tried the obstacle course.

At one point, the fire hits some sort of invisible wall and they sink down on their knees, out of breath. They must have been close to the arena's edges. Clarke's chest heaves up and down deeply, as she takes a hold of Finn's shirt, just aside from where it's torn and ripped. She frowns, mind still foggy from running.

"You were hit," she states, looking at the burns on his arm and on the junction between his chest and shoulder. "We have to clean them."

Finn opens his mouth to say something, when he falls over, blood gushing from the side of his head. Somebody just hit him with something. Her hearing still isn't what it was before the mine blew up, and she must've missed footsteps coming up behind them. He groans, rolling onto his side, and Clarke tears her eyes away from him just in time to avoid a blow to her own head.

She scrambles to her feet, face to face with Atom. His hand is shaking, blood dripping down the rock he's holding. There's burns on his neck, down his chest. "I'm sorry," he says, almost whining, his eyes wet. "But I won't die here." He looks desperate, pleading. "Maybe, maybe if I kill _you_ , they'll take mercy on me."

"And what happens after that?" Clarke asks, trying to stay calm as she thinks of a way to get out of this, glancing over at Finn. A canon hasn't gone off yet, but it doesn't hurt to check. He's still groaning, one hand pressing against the gushing head wound. She needs more time, to figure a way out of this. She looks back at Atom, insistent. "When it's just you and them?"

He scoffs, almost humoured as more tears trickle down his face. "What happens if it's just you and me?" He steps closer to her, forcing her to take a step back. She hits a tree, swallows hard. This is it.

Finn manages to clamber up long enough to hit Atom over the head with a thick log, the other tribute retaliating by crashing the rock into his leg, causing Finn to promptly sink back down on his knees, wailing out in pain. Atom stumbles, the rock slipping from his fingers as he tries to steady himself by grabbing onto a tree. He misses, probably still disoriented from the blow to his skull, landing on his back instead.

He growls, soft, pressing a hand to his head, eyes rolled into the back of his neck. She has to act now. Quickly, she jumps on top of him, wrapping her hands around his neck. He's still too subdued from the impact to his skull to react effectively, but manages to push her hands off as he reaches for her neck himself. She chokes for air, eyes darting around to find a way out of this. She presses her fingers into his red, burned skin until he yelps in pain, hands falling away from her neck to grasp at the angry wounds.

She puts her hands on his neck, and squeezes. Harder and harder, straining her muscles. He tries to push her off, tries to pull at her hands, but she can't give in. Not this time.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, hoarse, repeating herself over and over again as tears roll down her cheeks, dripping onto his face. His red face, veins bulged, eyes wide as he gulps for air, the sound strangled. He starts to become weaker underneath her. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

It seems like forever, her hands around his neck, squeezing and squeezing as he struggles for air. Then something shifts in his eyes, something glazy lays over them and she sobs, releasing her grip as she uses a trembling hand to wipe away the snot and tears from her face. Her voice trembles as she reaches out to close his eyes, carefully. "I'm sorry."

She gets up off him, only to fall back down beside Finn. She closes her eyes as a canon goes off.

.

Finn woke up before her. She blinks a few times, before looking at his arm questioningly. The burns are still there, but the skin looks better, less raw, healthier. Was she passed out for that long?

He softly kicks a parachute her way, in lieu of an explanation, as he seems to be packing his bag. Clarke sits up to reach for it, one silver box inside of it. This time containing medical ointment. She looks for the card, leaning over to collect it in between leaves on the ground.

She lets out a small gasp as she reads the inscription, eyes burning uncomfortably instantly _. Two very different things, remember that. - B_. It makes her heart ache painfully. She doesn't know how he's getting all these sponsors for them, but she knows she is thankful.

Clarke hadn't realized she was crying again until a tear drops on top of the card. She has to take out the careers. She has to make sure Myles and Madi and everyone else who was ever part of the Games, has to make sure they didn't die in vain. She wipes at her cheeks roughly, looking up at Finn to find him already staring at her. "I know what to do."

.

"You really think this will work?" He asks, stalking behind her. He'd reluctantly agreed to her plan after she explained it to him, twice, so she doesn't know why he keeps questioning her.

"I do," she replies, shortly, as she crouches down, moving aside a few branches to observe the cornucopia. The careers are laughing, sharing apples between the three of them. They're far enough away not to be noticed.

"How about I go, and you stay here?" He offers, warm breath hitting the back of her neck as he lowers himself to crouch right behind her. She huffs a negative his way. Atom hit him pretty hard, right on his knee cap. She patched him up, so at least her healing capabilities were good for something, but he still can't walk at a normal pace, let alone run.

He grit his teeth at her shortness. Then, "Clarke, if you hadn't killed him, he would've killed you."

"I know," she says, cold. Of course she knows that. That's the problem. He didn't have to kill her, he never had to, but they put him in a situation where he didn't have a choice. She sighs. "I know. I'll find you, after, okay?"

He nods, silent, which she reciprocates. Just as she's about to turn around, he catches her hand. He opens his mouth when she looks at him expectantly. He closes his mouth, squeezes her hand, his eyes gentle. Then seems to settle on, "May we meet again."

Instead of repeating the words, she kisses him on the mouth, soft and swift. He's all she has left. They might die. She might die. One of them _has_ to die. She meets his eyes, a promise, before she turns away, hurrying off to the water.

She sets of one of the mines with a rope and a rock, waits them out, because they _will_ come. She makes sure they see her before running off into the forest. She runs and runs, only stumbles for a second when Ontari plants one of her throwing knives into her shoulder, causing her to yelp out in pain. Finally, she reaches the part of the forest she was gunning for. She stops running as she hits a wall of fire, turning around. Unsurprisingly, they stop in front of her, not attacking her immediately, ready to taunt her.

"Aww, can I kill her?" Ontari smirks, pressing her hands together in a plea. Otan knocks his shoulder into hers, laughing loudly. "Where's the boyfriend?" Dax badgers, eyes sparkling with excitement. She ignores them, taking another step back as they edge closer.

Eight, nine—Ontari narrows her eyes in her, regards her like a prey, circling a knife in between her hands, _I'm going to enjoy this_ —ten, eleven, twelve—Otan makes a move for her, but she just takes one careful step back, avoiding his blade—thirteen— _oh, I've been waiting for this for a long time, sweetheart_ —fourteen, fifteen—she whimpers in pain as a flame burns her arm, they whoop joyfully—sixteen—she ducks, just as a fireball sails through the air, striking all three of them.

If they think she stopped because the fire made it so she had nowhere to go, they were wildly mistaken. She went back here earlier, waited for the flames to come, counted the seconds before the first and in between the raging balls of fire. They were triggered by movement. As soon as stepped inside the lines of trees, the countdown began.

She blows a leaf off her face as she pushes off the ground. Otan was hit the worst, because he was in the middle, skin black and scorched. Dead on impact. Dax is beside him, gasping for air, the sound gurgled. The side of his face is completely burned, even his hair. The smell is so horrible, she has to swallow back bile. A canon goes off. She pulls the knife from her shoulder with a hiss, and quietly sinks down on her knees beside his body.

"Ple-ase d-don't," he struggles to get out, choking on his own blood as he tries to reach for her. She clenches her jaw as she counts down to his fifth rib, before moving the knife into his chest cavity and angling it up, right in the heart. One of the fastest ways to die, if she could give him anything, it would be that.

Clarke wipes her face with the back of her hand, staining some blood on her face as another canon rings through the arena. Ontari is on her stomach, the back of her coat is still slightly burning, so Clarke turns her over, the flames extinguished by the dirt and leaves.

Clarke looks for her fifth rib, but it's hard to find because of the trauma to her body. For a moment, she looks scared, too paralyzed to say anything or do anything. She can't blame her, not really. She's just another something the capital created. Then Clarke pushes the knife in, and there's nothing left in her eyes. The third and final canon goes off. Stumbling onto her feet, she throws the knife as far away from herself as she can, deciding to get back to Finn.

She has to stop a few times on her way to the cornucopia, to throw up, or to keep from shaking, or to gather the courage to keep walking. She knows what has to happen. All her life, she's helped her mother save people and now… And now she's someone she doesn't even recognize.

When she reaches the cornucopia, she speeds up as soon as she sees a body lying in front of it. Myles' blood is still splattered across the metal frame of the cornucopia. _We're coming for you, twelve._ It's Finn, who else would it be, she realizes as she sinks down on her knees beside him.

She follows his arm to find berries splayed across grass, fallen from his hand. Nightlock, she realizes, deadfully poisonous. "No, no, no," she breathes, grasping at his shirt as fat tears spill down her cheeks. He looks up at her with distant eyes, like he's looking right through her, as he softly coughs and chokes on his own blood.

She leans down, pressing her forehead against his neck as she tries to keep him close. "I didn't think," he gasps, alternating coughs with hard swallows, "I didn't think I would, would see you again."

She smiles, more for him than for her, as she uses one hand to brush some of his hair back. "It's okay." She wants to tell him he shouldn't have eaten the berries, should've waited for her, she would've told him what they were, but it's no use now.

"It was a really stupid," he manages to get out, still smiling as his hand wraps around hers, still clung to his shirt. "Stupid plan."

She laughs, hoarse and throat-y and painful as he stares at the sky, hint of a smile on his lips. "Really stupid."

He chokes, tears rolling down his cheeks and onto the grass as his face scrunches up in pain. There will only be more pain, and she can't do anything to stop it. Nightlock kills excruciatingly slow.

"I f-found y...you," he repeats his earlier sentiment with great difficulty and Clarke smiles, caressing his cheek as blood begin to trickle down the corners of his mouth, body convulsing in pain. She presses her lips to his forehead, hand reaching for the bag beside his feet. Maybe she _can_ do something.

She starts humming low under her breath, trying to comfort him with a childhood song from their district, until her hand wraps around the knife she was looking for. _And will you take a life with me?_ Slowly, she counts his ribs. _Blood must have blood._ One move, and he lets out a long breath, "Thanks, princess." before his head falls to the side. _My body bleeds._ She cries, loudly, pressing her head into the crook of his neck as she claws at his shirt.

She whimpers, stuttering breath fanning into his neck, voice quivering as she rocks him, reciting the district twelve funeral passage, "In peace, may you leave this shore. In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey on the ground. May we meet again."

She cries, holding him against her chest until she's suddenly screaming, pulling the knife out of his body as she rises to her feet. She looks down at the blade in her hand, blood dripping down her hand. She doesn't know whose blood it is anymore at this point. A cannon goes off and Clarke's entire body is shaking. She spots a camera in the corner of the cornucopia, and she hates them, she fucking hates them. The capital, what they represent, their insatiable bloodthirst for revenge for something that happened 73 years ago. _Jus drein jus daun_. She stalks over there, spits directly at it before taking a step back. Giving them a good view.

"I won't let you," she yells, addressing the camera directly. Her eyes narrow, teeth grit together as another tear rolls down her cheek. She makes herself say the next word clear and steady, like a message. "You can't make me into another piece of your games. Blood must not have blood." She looks back down at the knife, eyes darting from side to side as she presses her free hand to her forehead, sticky with blood. Someone else's blood. She know what must be done. "I'm sorry, mom." In the distance, there's the sound of a helicopter. She doesn't have much time. She gasps, as she plunges the knife into her own stomach.

She drops down on her knees, before falling over on her side. Even as her breathing becomes more erratic, mouth tasting like metal, she never changes her line of sight. The cameras go dark.

.

"That was quite the performance," it's a female voice that wakes Clarke up from her slumber, gasping for air as the pain hits her all at once. Mom? She whimpers, her abdomen burning like someone is dripping acid over it.

"Yeah, I hope you don't mind," it's Anya, hissing like she can just imagine the pain she is going through, Clarke realizes as she lifts her head up. Her supposed mentor taps some fingers on the inside of her elbow, where an IV is attached to one of her veins. "They cut me off morphling a long time ago and there's nothing quite like it."

Clarke tries to sit up, but can't. The pain is too much. She squeezes her eyes shut, panicked. She doesn't even know where she is, if her mother's okay, where's Bellamy if she's here, how is she alive? She panics because she's not dead and Anya seems strangely sober.

"Killing all those careers at once was a Divine Move," Anya admits, kicking her feet up Clarke's bed. Suddenly she laughs, loud and unnatural. "You don't even know what you've done. That's the best part."

Clarke opens her mouth, tries to find her voice but all that comes out is a dry cough. _Everything_ hurts. "I'm impressed, Griffin. Didn't think you'd have the balls," Anya pats her arm. "Hope it was worth it."

"Wh…" Clarke clears her throat, face crinkled up in confusion as the machine beside her bed starts beeping loudly. The walls feel like they're starting to close in on her. She tries to move again, but can't. It's then she realizes she's restrained to the bed. Her voice is hoarse as she croaks out, "What do, do you… mean?"

"That's enough," Bellamy dismisses her, and Clarke strains her neck to find him standing in the doorway. That is before he steps inside of the room, stalking over to Anya. He disconnects the line of morphling from her arm, as he snarls, "I think a bottle of moonshine back in our apartment has your name on it anyway."

He looks tired, like he hasn't slept in days. It's not a look she's unaccustomed to, but somehow it feels more grave this time around. Yet, her body seems less tense at the sight of him. At least one thing hasn't changed.

"It's not like she has long," Anya replies sharply, pressing a cloth to her bleeding elbow but Bellamy doesn't give in, stance defensive as he barks, "Are you through?"

Anya holds up her hands in defense, knocking her shoulder purposely into Bellamy's as she starts to leave the room. He grabs her arm and they have a low, fiery exchange of words under their breaths. The only thing Clarke manages to catch is the last part of it, but then again, maybe Anya wanted her to hear. _There is no 'we'_. It surprises Clarke they haven't killed each other yet.

"Don't tell me you two are getting a divorce," she tries to joke, but it falls flat, ending up in a cough. He just frowns. She's crying again, she realizes. She doesn't know what's going on. Bellamy tinkers with the bag of morphling for a second, before re-attaching it to the peripheral line on her hand. Relief comes within moments.

"What did she mean by that?" Her voice croaks as Bellamy starts working on unbuckling her constraints. She takes him in carefully, gauging his reaction to her question. "If it was worth it?"

He helps her sit up, brushes some hair back from her sweaty face. He sighs, "Wallace— _they_ want you to say you did what you did because you saw Finn die, and you were under the influence of tracker jacker venom. That you didn't know what you were doing."

"Why?" She breathes, voice squeaky. The room feels small, too small.

"Because even if it wasn't your intention," he presses, making a point of tilting his head towards a camera in the corner of the room. She can barely see it in the corner of her eyes. "Some people might've seen your performances in the arena as an act of rebellion."

She swallows tight, chest tight as the machine starts beeping again. Must be registering her heartrate she realizes. She was supposed to die. They weren't supposed to be able to hold this against her. It's an impossible situation now, where she's going to have to lie on the behalf of the capitol once again.

She settles on, "I'm sorry." His hand claps around hers and she looks down with a frown at the feeling of something cold. It's her father's pin. She smiles tearfully, grateful, hand turning back over to cover his. He was always the tactile one, but she can return the favor.

He holds her gaze. "Thank you," she says, clearing her throat and swallowing the tears back down. Quickly, she adds, "For getting me sponsors."

He looks even more miserable all of a sudden. He lowers his voice. "Clarke. You should know. Wells… he was lashed."

Her shoulders straighten as she throws the covers off her, wincing as there's too much strain and pressure on her wound. Bellamy stops her, by putting a hand on her knee. "He's fine. Your mother is taking care of him."

"Lashed?" She repeats, voice shaking as she searches his face for some sort of sign that this wasn't her life now. That her life wasn't just impossible decisions and an inevitable tragic end now. She didn't choose to live, she chose to die. They couldn't even let her do that.

He lifts a shoulder indifferently, but his hand is clam in hers. "They said it was because he visited the black market, bought something there."

He knows, he knows more. She can feel it. She can't think clearly, and she trusts him, so she has to know, too. She wets her lips, pauses, before she questions, "What do you say?"

"I say," his voice trails off as he sighs, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes before looking back at her. His expression pained, leg ticking back and forth nervously. "It's a warning."

.


End file.
